Hundreds of Colours, Millions of Shades
by Kitty Ryan
Summary: Here is the story of Volney Rain and Lindhall Reed, and Arram Draper... . From a village in Tyra on the river Drell, across the Zekoi to Carthak and her empire, and from there to Tortall, along the Olorun.
1. Prologue: Kari, mia sorella

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"Hundreds of Colours; Millions of Shades." 

The story of Volney Rain.

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By: Kitty Ryan

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Rating: R

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Genre: Angst/Adventure

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Summary: Here is the story of Volney Rain, from a village in Tyra on the river Drell, across the Zekoi to Carthak and her empire, and from there to Tortall, along the Olorun. From a Hunter to the hunted, and then back again. We learn of his birth, his talent and love. His child and nephew, his sister and his friends. His dreams and what became of them. How one of the most influential artists of the Human Era ended up living in a tiny room on Filigree street, and especially how he came to say 'Mmph-hmph'. Mmph-hmph. 

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Disclaimer: Volney Rain, Numair Salmalìn, Tyra, Tortall and any other person, landmark or country etc which you may recognise from a certain set of books belong to Tamora Pierce, not I. The concept of the Assassins Guild is inspired by Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. Thankyou.

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Authors note: This is Volney Rain's story, sprung from _Focus _(chapter six,) and _Midwinter Luck_. Though it is not essential, I recommend you read them first. Also, I've made Tyra a sort of incarnation of Italy, and the Tyranian native language is Italian. During this part of the story in particular, I have used some Italian in the dialogue, (though it is possible to understand the storyline without it, of course.) Please, if you don't understand the language, refer to the glossary below. And if you _do _speak Italian than feel free to brutally point out any mistakes I might have made. My Italian is decidedly rusty. 

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Glossary: 

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Bambino piccolo: Little baby.

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Basta: Enough!

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Bello/a: Lovely/beautiful.

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Dio: God. In this case I've made it Mithros.

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Dio e Dea: Mithros and Goddess!

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Donna: Woman. (Grown.)

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Donna Imprudente: Foolish woman.

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e: and 

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Fratello: Brother.

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Fratello mia: Brother mine.

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Grazi: Thanks.

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Guerra: War.

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Idiota: Idiot.

Immortale: Immortal.

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Insoppotabile: Insufferable.

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Io: I

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Io rifutare: I refuse.

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La: The. (Feminine)

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La Dea: The Goddess.

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Lettre: Letter.

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Lo: The. (Masculine.)

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Lo studente: The (male) student.

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Mia: Me. (feminine)

_Mia fratello miggoire_ _paranoica: _My paranoid big brother.

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Mia marito porvero: My poor husband.

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Mio: Me. (Masculine.)

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Mio Sorella miovigliosa piccola: My wonderful little sister.

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Mio _sorella pazza e bella: _My crazy and beautiful sister_._

Pazzo/a: Crazy/insane/stupid.

Prego: Please.

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Quartiere mercato: Market district.

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Raggazo: Boy.

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Si: Yes.

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Si! Tu vero: Yes! You truly do.

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Signore/Signora: Mr/Mrs.

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Sorella: Sister.

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Sorella cara: Dear sister.

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Stare zitto: Shut up!

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Tale spargimento di sangue: Such bloodshed!

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Tu: You

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Tu cavore? Are you sickening for something?

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Tu parlare? You spoke?

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Tu uomo piccolo pazzo: You insane little man.

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Uomo: Man. (Grown.)

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Note: Italian grammar is basically the same as French grammar, meaning that words are often the wrong way around when translated into English. Eg. "_Mio sorella idiota._" Turns out as 'my sister idiot' when it actually is 'my idiot sister.' And "_Mia marito porvero,_" turns out as "my husband poor" instead of "my poor husband." It's simple enough. Just interpret the thing whichever way it makes the most sense.

* * *

Middle City: Corus, Tortall. One week post Scanra's declaration of war.

"Kari, don't you understand? If you don't leave the country _now _--"

"I have no reason to leave,_ mia fratello miggoire_ _paranoica_"

"But, _sorella_! Sister, there is a _war _on. Mmph-hmph! _A guerra! _

"I am not going to Tyra, Volney. The Scanran's have nothing against me or mine, and I don't even live on the boarder.

"Tortall shall to be a blood bath! The Scanran's have at least a quarter of the Gallan's on their side. Runaway Carthaki's… 

"I am not moving."

You shall be sitting in bloodshed, _Sorella cara. _Mmph-hmph. _Tale spargimento di sangue_! Either that or you shall be lying in your own."

"_Basta_! Enough, _fratello mia. _Enough. I shall not be moved. Not by _guerra, _not by Scanran's, and not by you.

"Oh, Kari. You think you are _immortale_. _Si! Tu vero. _Kari, _mio_ _sorella pazza e bella_, you must leave. Mmph-hmph. 

"_ Fratello insopportabile_!" Do not say what I must or must not do, Volney Rain. 

The argument had been said over and over for a week now, but to the two people involved in it, it seemed like years. Both of them wondered openly when the other would see sense, and knew very, very well that they were the only two in all of Tortall who had to put up with such incredible opposition to their very sound, logical reasoning. Actually, since war had been officially declared; and before that - things were the same during any war - this same argument had been played out time and time again by innumerable souls. And was a very important argument indeed: was one to go into safety, loneliness and uncertainty following them, staying with them, waiting behind every strange corner? Or was one to stay, with danger, family and uncertainty lurking in once familiar shadows? It was time for Volney Rain and his sister, Kari Rain-Ironfoundersson, to decide.

They made an odd pair. Standing in a small, dilapidated room in Filigree Street, Middle City, which - though it was near empty now - had once been full to bursting with all sorts of odd and beautiful things. The walls visible for the first time in years, its coat of paintings gone. But these two, speaking rapidly in a mixture of Common and their native Tyranian, a brother and sister - however much they didn't look it - made a painting on their own. Kari, whose name had once been Isebella until she had changed when singing on the stage long ago, tall, handsome and slightly plump. With bold, strong features in a face that still looked proudly youthful despite her forty odd years. Her long, thick hair with hardly a streak of grey in the black. And Volney, slight of figure and white of neatly brushed hair. Whose face was spattered with age and paint, as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and whose features - like his frame - were small and neat. The only features they seemed to share - his behind copper framed spectacles, hers not - were large, beautiful black eyes under perpetually quirked eyebrows. Volney - in his sixties now - looked more like Kari's father. It was a mistake often made. But Kari was his sister, his junior by almost twenty years, but his sister nevertheless. A sister glaring down at her brother, full mouth drawn and eyes irritated and anxious by turns, hands planted firmly on hips, and demanding no further arguments. Volney staring back up at her and demanding the same, her stress mirrored in his eyes. He sighed. "At least tell me _why_. Mmph-hmph"

"Because I refuse_, io rifiutare, _to run when I need not. I only moved three years ago, I do not want to again. I have done nothing wrong, _mia fratello_. Neither have you, nor _mia marito porvero_. Why should I run if it should only give the Scanran's unnecessary satisfaction? 

"_Dio e Dea!_" Volney passed a hand across his eyes then glared heatedly the impossible woman in front of him. "_Mio sorella idiota,_" he said tiredly, the glare producing no effect, "Do you actually _want _do die?"

"That question is far too stupid a one to answer, _fratello_. And why do you call upon Mithros and _la Dea_, you heathen? You never call upon them properly."

"_Kari_…" 

Kari yawned hugely, leaning against one of the bare walls. " I do not want to discuss this _guerra _any more. You hear? No more." 

"We have to," said the elder brother, firmly. "I am leaving for Tyra the tenth hour tomorrow, and I am going to take you with me. Mmph-hmph"

"You try that, _tu uomo piccolo pazzo_, and you'll regret it."

"_Donna imprudente_!" Volney muttered, "what about Sefton?"

Kari snorted, looking down upon the much shorter man derisively. "My son is a _bambino piccolo _no more, or had you forgotten? He is safe at the Guild."

"Which is in Tyra, where _you _belong."

Kari suddenly smiled at her brother, looking impish and motherly at the same time. "Volney -- "

Mmph-hmph?" 

" _Stare zitto!_"

* * *

When Volney Rain left the next morning, Kari Rain-Ironfoundrersson - tears falling in a river down her face - was in her warm, well-lit kitchen in Little Ryan Street, kneading bread dough with far more force than was strictly necessary.

* * *

Tyranian Guild of Assassins: _quartiere mercato_, Tyra. Six months after declaration, Scanra/Tortall situation still unresolvable.

"_Signor_ Rain!"

Volney stood at one of the small, slit-like windows, which let light (any very little else) into the stone interior of the Guild. He sighed. _Yes_, he thought idly, _My country boasts many things: beautiful art, nice markets, a population problem, friends for life…and the Tyranian Guild of Assassins._ Not for the first time Volney regretted supporting his nephew Sefton's plea to follow in his Marenite father's footsteps. Sons of dead assassins always got a free scholarship. (It could be a caring profession at times.) He didn't regret it because of what the boy was here to _learn_ - no indeed, assassins were much-needed pillars of society - he regretted it because of the lack of a view. Tyra wasn't called the most 'interesting' capital and country for just anything. Through the slit of a window he could only see a tiny strip of colour - which seemed to shout up at his artists eye all the more because of the decidedly monochromatic colour scheme he was living in. Volney disliked that. In his opinion children ought to be brought up in colour, hundreds of colours. But these were brought up on black. Different colours of black. He regretted that most of all. 

"Signor _Rain_!"

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I wonder how Kari is… Still gazing out the window, Volney's mood dropped to fit the colour scheme. He had been in Tyra almost six months now, with Midwinter preparing to set in - _Must be _freezing _in this place over winter _- and he hadn't heard from his sister since just before the Autumn Solstice. He had been hearing, however, that the fighting was hard. It had spilled into Tortall proper now, no longer just around the boarder lines. Lives had been lost, and everyone wondered whether they would be joining them. The roads were a slow river of frantic people, swimming with the outbound current. Tusaine had already closed its boarders; when would other nations do the same? 

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Signor Rain!"

Signore Rain gave a start, turning to face a flustered looking boy of about eight, dressed in black. _Of course he's dressed in black, dolt! He's part of the Guild._ "Eh, _Tu Parlare? _Did you say something?" 

Volney was sure he could hear a muffled oath coming from the boy's mouth, "_Si, Signore. _This was sent to you, from Tortall. _A lettre._

Before the boy had a chance to fish the thing properly out of his pouch, Volney snatched it and tore open the envelope, ignoring the boy's wide-eyed shock. As soon as he passed the first line, he ignored everything.

"_To Mister Volney Galadrid Rain_, "it read," _Tyranian capital. Tyra,_

I, on the behalf of the Tortallan crown - may it live forever - regret to tell you that your sister: a Mistress Kari Rain-Ironfounderson of Little Ryan Street, Middle City, Corus, widow to Bran Jeramiah Ironfoundersson of Maren, was one of many victims of a surprise Scanran raid…"

Kari… 

"…Was identified by Numair Salmalìn…"

Mio Sorella miavigliosa piccola…

"…we believe that Mistress Rain-Ironfoundersson had a son who is currently studying in Tyra…"

Tale spargimento di sangue_! Guerra… I told you, Kari. I begged you…_

"…guardianship shall immediately pass over to you…"

Why? Why do I outlive everyone I care for? Now it is my sister, and I thought that I had escaped…

"…Once again, we regret your loss deeply…"

Not bloody deep enough!

"…Yours sincerely,"

Kari…

"Demitri Peregonis -- Provosts Guard."

Why…?

"Umm… Signore Rain?"

Volney jumped, scrunching the letter tightly in his hands, he turned to face the messenger. "What is it, _ragazzo_, Mmph-hmph?"

"Are you alright? _Tu covare_?" The boy looked worried, shifting from one foot to the other.

"I am not sickening for anything, boy," Volney said tiredly, "but, no, I could not be called all right. _Prego, _please, would you do something for me. Mmph-hmph?"

"Signore Rain?"

"Could you kindly bring _lo studente _Sefton Ironfounderson to me. Mmph?"

The boy smiled reassuringly at Signore Rain, absolutely sure that the man was a little soft in the head. "_Si, _Signore." 

"_Grazi_," the artist whispered, turning once again to the window. "Thankyou."

The boy turned on his heel, and set off. Sefton - a student four years his senior - should be doing poison theory about now. Poor thing. At least whatever Signore Rain had sent him for would get him out of that.

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	2. Chapter One: Black Ink

**Hundreds of Colours; Millions of Shades**

The story of Volney Rain

**By**: Kitty Ryan

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**Chapter One**: Black Ink

**Rating:** PG-13. There's no point in giving it a higher rating until it deserves one.

**Genre:** Angst/Adventure

**Summary:** In this chapter, Kitty is easing herself back into Volney Rain's world after too long an absence. We meet his nephew, and a girl called Tony. The true power of a loved one's death is beginning to be felt, and hints for the _real _story are scattered here and there.

**Disclaimer:** Volney Rain, Numair Salmalìn, Tyra, Tortall and any other person, landmark or country, etc., which you may recognise from a certain set of books belongs to Tamora Pierce, not I. The concept of the Assassins Guild is inspired by Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. Thank you.

**Author's Note: **This chapter is dedicated to The Girl Who Got Me Writing This Again. You might know her as A Girl Called Candice. I hope she likes it. I'd also like to thank anyone who has read this and enjoyed it, including Edith, FlyingFire, and Ali and Sarah, of course.

This is also the last really huge chunk of Italian you'll have to suffer through, hopefully. I'm trying to keep it to the bare minimum. A glossary can be found at the bottom.

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A small, dusty classroom on E Block, _Quinte_ _Veleno_, Tyranian Guild of Assassins: Tyra. Class in Session: _Avvelenare Teoria._

The boy's head was bent studiously over his desk, strands of long, soft black hair occasionally slipping out of its ties and falling forward into his earnest face--to be pushed away by a thin hand with traces of ink around the nail-beds. Some of it had lingered there for weeks, even months; stubbornly refusing to move, no matter how strong the soap. He looked the perfect student. Even old professor D'Invergio--his eyes zealous, watchful and slightly mad as he looked at the class making their notes on _La_ _Sangue di Vipera--_could not find fault.

The student smiled, looking very satisfied with himself, and moved to push his hair back again--but he used his left hand this time and a fine, squirrel-hair brush came up with it. Black ink smeared across his cheek, and up further still, ending with what could almost be called a flourish underneath his eye. "_Aie! Ragazzo-sozzo! Tu, tuo Ziodisegno! Sempre disegno!"_ He could hear his mother's loud, passionate voice in the back of his head, chastising him. He smiled again, ignored the ink and the voice, and set the brush down to correct a line.

"Hey! _Deficiente_!" The boy jumped, this voice wasn't Mama's. Tony, short for Tonetta, short for Antonetta, was glaring at him from the next desk over.

"Eh?" he looked at her, blankly. "Something the matter?

The expression in Tony's fierce little eyes was amused. "Sefton, _tu_ _idioto Marenicia, _if D'Invergio sees that then you're _dead_. _Morto_."

Sefton looked at D'Invergio, who was currently pulling the wings off flies and bottling them, and then at his work. She was right, it _was _a good likeness. "You telling?"

Tony resisted the urge to laugh. His attempt at trying to put a warning into a whisper was dismal. "That's for _me _to know, all right? You're in _my_ power now."

"Got power now, _Ant_onetta? You turned into an evil _Fata Buona_, or what?"

"It's _Strega _or nothing, and don't you forget it!"

Sefton grinned. "You're no _Strega_! My Mama knows a _Strega. _They're much prettier."

"Ooooh! Your Mama don't know nothing. Your Mama's got a beard, she has! Your Mama's a goat!"

The boy flushed red, and almost shot up from his desk. "Don't you talk like that!"

"Baaaaah! You're bleating, goat-boy. You squirm a lot. D'Invergio'd have _fun _with you!" Tony grinned. "You know, I _will _tell him, just so I can watch."

"Ugh!" The boy shuddered. "_Morbosa_!"

"_Una ploblema, studente _Ironfoundersson?"

Silence fell. Normally, Sefton found the Poison Master's clumsy pronunciation of his Marenite name highly amusing. But, then again, he was rarely caught out. This, apart from being embarrassing, had the potential of being very painful. Damn Tony! He'd seen D'Invergio let fly at other, less careful, students, and wasn't looking forward to the inevitable one bit. Well, there was nothing for it: he'd have to lie to an Assassin. "_Una problema, Professore?_" he looked up into the scarily intense eyes of the old man, whom he'd caricatured so often before, and tried his best to look vacuous and docile. "_Non, non problema_," he said, trying to push the dangerous sketch out of sight.

Professor D'Invergio spotted the movement, and grabbed his wrist. Sefton, being the dramatic sort, was sure that he could feel Doom herself settle around him as he was pulled to his feet. "_Studenti, _you see this boy?"

The class nodded, and Tony, unobserved, leaned over and snatched up the paper, hiding it under the black fabric of her shirt.

"You _see _this boy?" the professor, meanwhile, was still holding Sefton captive. "This boy, always so quiet over his books. _Uno raggazo_ bene! Such a _good _student, he seems. But now, _studenti_, I find him disruptive, and in such _heated _conversation with _studentessa _Frescobaldi. I wonder if he is working on anything at all? Let us" the man smiled, showing teeth. "Let us have a look. Of course, I might be a _uomo vecchio dilirante_--a delusional old man who is unfit to teach--_si_? I might be _wrong_."

The class tittered, dutifully.

"But, if I am _right_, and he has done _niente_if he has done _nothing_, then I shall use him as an example to all of you. _Si, _that is fair." Speech finished, Professor D'Invergio bent down to look carefully through each item on Sefton's desk.

The boy closed his eyes, and vowed that, no matter what, he wouldn't make a sound. He waited for pain.

But none came.

Slowly, nervously, he opened his eyes, and Tony winked. He blessed her, silently, and made a new vow. _I'll do her chores for a _month!

Someone knocked. D'Invergio, who had--in those last, fruitless seconds--been growing frustrated, whirled around, looking like an angry bat--the real cliché of an old-school Assassin. "_Si?_" He demanded, glaring at the unhappy eight-year-old messenger in the doorway.

"_Scusa_, _Professore _D'Invergio, _s-s-signore_. B-but_Signore _Rain is here,

a-and he needs to talk to _s-s-studente _S-sefton Ironfounderss-s-s- --"

''--Who is here, and will come with you. Though I want to have words with him, later," he gave Sefton a pointed look, and then let go of his wrist. "_Andare_! Get out of my sight, _studente_! I have had enough of you! _Basta_! And wash your face!"

Sefton fled, and Tony watched him, wondering what was going on.

* * *

The corridors of the Guild had a tendency to be long and winding--terminal procrastinators that moved in endless loops and zigzags--avoiding any destination. But Sefton knew his way around, and so did the younger boy. He felt like he was walking on air. He'd been saved from humiliation, and he was going to see his uncle. Sefton _liked _his uncle.

"Hey, how is _mio zio_, do you know?" he asked the other boy, smiling.

"_Signore_ Rain?" Away from D'Invergio, the child's stuttering had vanished. "Oh, he's fine. I _think_"

"You think?"

"Is _tuo zio__un po' di__pazzo_, Sefton?

Sefton grinned. "_Si_, you could say that. You could also say he's a few spikes short of a throwing star, mmph-hmph?"

The boy laughed at the other's impression, and then looked sheepish. "_Scusi_!"

"No need. We love him crazy."

"Aah_D'accordo_."

Sefton lay a reassuring hand on the other boy's shoulder. "I know my way around, all right? Thanks for getting me, butdon't you have class, or something?"

"_Si_," the other muttered, groaning. "_Danza_."

Sefton grimaced. "_Tu povero_! That's a _stupid _class for us _Assassinos'_."

"You're telling _me_!" The unfortunate sighed dramatically, and then turned back the way he had come, leaving Sefton on his own.

He moved more quickly after that, heading there, turning here, and it wasn't long before he found the heavy, oak-and-silver door to the Waiting Room. He opened it quickly.

"_Zio_ Volney! _Zio_! Oh, it's _great_ to see you! You just saved my life, you know. D'Invergio was" he trailed off. "_Zio_?"

The old man was crying.

* * *

The Waiting Room, Tyranian Guild of Assassins: Tyra.

"Soyou, really did try?"

Sefton's voice was very quiet, now. The tears had stopped, leaving him with nothing. No strength, no voice, no mother. He was curled up in one grey corner of the room, and Volney was holding him

"Of _course_ I tried," he said. "Sefton, _mio raggazo_, I tried as hard as anyone can, mmph-hmph."

"That hard?"

"Mmph-hmph. That hard. But it wasn't hard enough--forgive me."

Sefton turned his head to the wall, unable to speak.

"Hey! You gonna be in here all day, boy? You've missed the rest of class already, _and_ SefSefton?"

Volney looked up, to see a stocky, round-faced girl standing in the doorway. Her jaw had dropped, and her black eyes were alarmed. "_Che_?"

Recognising Tony's voice, Sefton stood up, rather shakily, and went over to her. He answered her question before she could ask. "My mother's dead."

"Oh**merda!**"

Sefton managed a cracked laugh. "Yes, it is, isn't it?"

Tony hugged him, and Sefton, too tired for embarrassment, gingerly hugged her back.

Volney Rain watched them. The two children in the grey-and-black room, illuminated by thin streams of late-afternoon light, busy and full of dust motes. One child tall and gangling, his smooth, cool black clothes and hair in shocking contrast to the rest of him, looking so drawn and pale that even his wide grey eyes had lost their colour. The other so small, so self-assured, so fierce--her wiry, dark-brown hair a fuzz about her head. She wore black, too. But it was a hot back; charcoal rather then ink or steel. The image, wavering through the artist's tears, was eerie and attractive. His hands itched for a brush. Kari would love it. She'd laugh and cluck and start matchmaking immediately.

_Oh, Kari_

But Kari was dead.

He bit his lip to stop a sob, and looked away. Then started, when a hard little hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"_Signore _Sefton's _Zio_? The girl was kneeling by him, face concerned.

Volney tried to smile. "Mmph-hmph?"

"II am _triste molto_very, very sorry about _tuo sorella's _dying, you must understand that. But"

"But what, child?"

Tony flushed. "You _will _look after Sefton, won't you? Not go _pazzo_ with grief or anything like that? Not go crazy and leave him to fend for himself, which he's very bad at?"

The old man smiled a proper smile, this time, eyes filling. "What is your name? Tell me, mmph-hmph? _Come si chiama?_"

Tony grimaced. "_Mi chiama_my name's Antonetta Frescobaldi. But it's just Tony, all right? _E tu?_

_Mi chiamo_ Volney Rain, _Signorina _Tony Frescobaldi," Volney said, very serious. "And I'll protect the boy with my life."

This did _not _satisfy the _Signorina_. She was an Assassin (or, nearly was) and knew very well that lives couldn't stand up to much--not if you hired the right people. She looked at him, her head tilted a little to the left, her eyes full of worried skepticism. "No offence," she said, dryly, "but I sure hope you're going to protect him with more than _that_, old man."

"I'll use everything I've got, and then some."

Tony glared. "If anything happens to him then you answer to _me_, all right?" She stood up, and went over to Sefton, who had only heard confusing fragments of their whispered conversation. "What where you talking to _zio _Volney about?"

She smiled. "_Niente_. We've just reachedan understanding."

"Oh," he said. He was too drained to really care.

Tony pulled a small, rather crumpled paper, out from under her shirt, and pressed it to him. "Don't look at it yet, you hear?"

"Wha--?"

She hugged him again, hard. "When you get back, you _owe _me, all right?" She pushed him away. "That _zio _of yours gotta look after you. Go, now."

Dazed, Sefton did as she said. Walking slowly to his uncle, helping him up, and going through the door.

* * *

A cart, belonging to one Signore Gisepi, the Tyran countryside: Tyra.

The boy didn't unfold his paper until much later. There'd been so much to do. Everyone thought he and his uncle were insane for leaving the safety of the Guild(the term was used _very _loosely, mind), and heading out to Tortall. But Volney Rain had his sister's stubborn streak, and refused to listen to the chorus of '_Non! Non!_ 's that followed him everywhere. Eventually, they'd secured a battered cart, and a driver who could be persuaded to put his fear on hold when given a bag of _'Oro d'Nobile'_. And so, they were finally moving. Moving towards a war-zone, a funeral, and some man called Numair Salmalìn, who his uncle said they needed to see. So Sefton didn't even think to look at it until much later, when twilight was setting in and they were moving, rather jerkily, towards the boarder, their driver muttering curses and prayers up the front.

It was the sketch.

D'Invergio, glaring fanatically up at him from the smudged page. Had he only done it that morning? Sefton touched his cheek. No ink came off onto his fingers. Tears had long washed it away.

Then, he saw something else. Something was _written _in the corner, in a familiar, almost-illegible hand.

_"Here you go_, mio defciente. _It's still safe. Maybe I _am _your _Fata Buona_, after all."_

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_Fin_

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**Glossary:**

_Andare: _Go away! Clear off!

_Assassino_: Assassin

_Avvelenare Teoria_: Poison Theory

_Bene_: Good

_Che_: What?!

_Come si chiama_: You have a name?

_D'accordo_: Okay

_Danza_: Dance/dance class.

_Deficiente_: Moron! 

_Disegno_: Drawing/scribbling

_Fata Buona_: Fairy Godmother

_La_ _Sangue di Vipera_: Blood of the Viper. A poison.

_Merda_: Shit!

_Mi chiama/chiamo_: My name is

_Morbosa_: Morbid

_Morto_: Dead

_Niente: _Nothing 

_'Oro d'Nobile'_: A _very _rough translation of "Gold Nobles." My unoriginal Tyran currency.

_Problema_: Problem

_Professore_/_essa_: Professor__

_Quinte_ _Veleno_

_Ragazzo-sozzo_: Filthy boy!

_Scusa/Scusi_: "Excuse me" or "Sorry!"

_Sempre: _Always

_Studente/essa_: Student/pupil

_ Strega: _A witch, usually beautiful and seductive.

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_Studenti_: Students (group of)

_Tuo_: Your__

_"Tu_ _idioto Marenicia"_: "You stupid Marenite."

_Triste molto_: Very sad

_Tu Povero_:Poor you!

_"Tuo zio__un po' di__pazzo?"_ "Your uncle is a little insane?"

_Uno/Una_: I'm most cases, translates as 'a'.

_Uomo vecchio dilirante_: Delusional old man.

_Zio_: Uncle

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	3. Chapter Two: Amber Lacquer

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Hundreds of Colours; Millions of Shades

The story of Volney Rain

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By: Kitty Ryan

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Chapter Two: Amber Lacquer

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Rating: PG-13. 

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Genre: Angst/Adventure

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Summary: This chapter contains an unpatriotic boy, a depressed man alone in his room with a bottle of wine, a town of two countries, a magpie called Mihali and a ten-year-old Lindhall Reed. 

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Disclaimer: Volney Rain, Numair Salmalìn, Tyra, Tortall and any other person, landmark or country, etc., which you may recognise from a certain set of books belongs to Tamora Pierce, not I. The concept of the Assassins Guild is inspired by Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. Thank you.

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Authors Note: This is a long chapter, which needs a lot of constructive criticism. There is also a time-lapse and I'm not entirely sure how well I've written it. I've decided that, after labouring over it for almost two weeks, I'll leave it to you to judge. Please, tell me if everything is understandable, and if anything isn't. 

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A Girl Called Candice: Thank you so much for your support of this story--it's starting to flourish again and, in a way, you're to be thanked for that. 

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Wintersjuly: Thanks for reading, Anita! You think that Kari is a tall, Italian Mrs. Weasley? I never really thought of her like that--it's intriguing. Yes, Tony is cool--I had a great laugh reading her out aloud. I'm really glad you like the children being brought up in colour ideal, I thought up those lines first, before any of the story existed. They wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote them.

* * *

The House of Volney Rain, Filigree Street, Middle City: Corus: Tortall. 460 HE

It took Sefton less than a week to discover he hated Tortall. 

He hated everything about it. The smells, the sounds…the contrast between the gorgeous, beautifully maintained and gilded dome of the Palace and the narrow dinginess of the slums just outside its gates. He hated the Olorun: languid, slow and--by the time it had passed through Corus, 'blesséd city of a thousand souls'--so thick with the sweat and waste of humanity that it could scarce be called a liquid. He hated the Provost Guard--suspicious eyed and harsh-souled--all too free with their clubs and their authority, despite a glowing reputation.

Most of all, the boy hated the people's arrogance.

__

Such arrogance! As far as everyone--from the lowest beggar to the most pampered princeling--were concerned, Tortall was, without a doubt, the most wondrous jewel of the eastern lands. 

They had the most handsome, personable king, the most beautiful, courageous queen, the most talented, radical scholars and the most valiant of soldiers. The most wretched of citizens were better off than any in Tusaine, or Maren, or Galla, or Tyra--because they were _Tortall's _wretched citizens! Folk were ever so proud to live in Tortall, home of the famed Lioness, and of the freshly knighted 

Keladry of Mindelan--proof that Lady Knights were no passing thing, at least in _their _country. 

Patriotism was so strong here that Sefton felt he could reach out and touch it.

But he had seen his mother, yesterday.

The boy had stared at her bloody face--so stiff and cold--in the still, grim room at the 'Guards, while his uncle had been comforted by a tall, long-faced man. He had remembered, then, there, at that place, all the times Kari had said "_soon_, bambino_, soon you'll come visit your Mama in Tortall. You'll love it there, _mio cara_, much better than that _Assassinos _Guild foolishness of yours!"_

__

Why does everyone love it so much? he had wondered, loathing so sharp and strong in his heart that he thought he would burst. Why _had_ sheloved it so much? It had done nothing to deserve a love such as hers. Where was the oh-so-wonderful Lioness when the raiders had attacked her home? Was Kari Ironfoundersson's tall figure too large for the Protector of the Small to aid? Sefton wasn't afraid of death. For four years he had been trained in it, numbed against it--but the deaths he knew were swift and silent-- no blood if one could help it and relatively painless. Pain had nothing to do with the business, really--only money.

But this…his mother's death was a different sort. It had been long; he could see that, even if the adults tried to keep it from him. She had been stabbed by a rusty knife, and left to die, to drain away. Her face was a rictus. She'd been in _pain_, and no one had helped her. 

Sefton hadn't cried, there. He'd simply looked, and tried to warm her cold fingers. Someone had tried to talk to him. A very lovely looking woman, he remembered, with sad grey-blue eyes and curly hair. She'd come with the long man, and looked as if she understood. 

"We'll beat them in the end," she'd said. "No fear. Jon--the King, that is--will find a way. With all of us."

He'd been polite, of course. Quietly saying thank you to the pretty lady, to make her feel like she'd done something more than anything else. No king would care about a middle-aged Tyran woman, and he knew that, even if she didn't. 

__

Zio Volney had taken him home, after that. A cramped, shabby home, its walls thick with dust--save for the strange, brilliant white patches where paintings had obviously been hung--and now he was sitting on the dusty floor, surrounded by broken frames and scraps of canvas, with only his thoughts for company. His uncle had slipped into his room with a bottle of _vino_, needing some time alone. 

The boy sneezed, and glared at nothing. Gods, he hated this place. Looking around at the empty walls, at the discarded frames, at the indelible paint stains and patches of mouldy damp all around him, Sefton felt a small, irrational twinge of disgust toward his uncle. He was famous, wasn't he? Then why, _why_, did he live in such a hole?

Suppressing the urge to punch a hole of his own through one of the walls, Sefton stood up, brushed himself off out of habit, and knocked on the door to Volney's room. 

* * *

It was quite hard to get yourself drunk on a single bottle of red wine, but Volney was managing it. Everything was taking on a golden glow. Or was it amber? Volney liked amber. He'd coated a sketch in an amber mixture, a lacquer that preserved the strength of the charcoal's blackness, and made a rock-hard surface of pure colour. He'd loved the effect it made, he remembered. A bit like what he was seeing now, but…not quite. Perhaps another glass would achieve that. 

Damn! None left. Volney stood to get another bottle. At least, he tried to stand, but the floor seemed to be rising up, or was the ceiling falling down? He decided not to find out, and just stayed where he was, thinking about amber. What _was _that sketch of? Oh, it was a self-portrait; that was it. Him, holding Isebella--Kari. She'd been…how many months old?

__

Three, a small, dim part of him remembered. _Three_. 

Right, so she'd been just a baby, and he'd been a young man. _Dea_! That had been a long time ago. He'd had dark hair then--like the boy's. Sefton's. He had to look after Sefton now, the poor child. 

__

I can't do this. The thought cut cleanly through the layers of fantasy and alcohol. 

It was at this point that Volney realised why he hadn't touched a drop for twenty years. It brought back memories. Images of Kari's face seemed to be moving around the room, merging into other ones, long hidden and even dearer…

…a child taking his first steps, tiny arms reaching forward, eyes crinkled up in his face, which looks amazingly gleeful for someone only eighteen months old…

…a woman's long arms reaching out to catch the child, bangles tinkling as they fall from elbow to wrist. The child laughs; the woman laughs. She turns to the old man, eyes shining….

Face after face, scene after scene. Wasn't drink meant to make you forget? Like hell it did. Volney sat, helpless, as memories resurfaced, some of them forty years old, and others even more, but still as sharp and clear as when they had been taken in by the artist's eye. The amber glow was fading, being replaced by a dull, insistent thud at the back of his head.

__

Boom…boom…boom.

Volney knew he was going to regret this in the morning.

__

Boom…boom…

He closed his eyes-- he was regretting this _now_. Never mind the morning.

__

Boom…boom…

…_knock?_

"_Z--zio_?"

Volney groaned, and carefully, very carefully, put down the glass. "It's open."

The creak of the door was horribly loud. "_Zio_? You okay?" 

"_Si_, just a little…under the weather, mmph-hmph. "

Sefton nodded, and moved to sit next to his uncle on the bed, looking surprised as the man flinched. 

"Aie! Not so _loud_."

"I didn't say nothing!"

"You're _walking _loudly."

Sefton looked at him, grey eyes flinty with disgust. "You're gonna be like _hell_ in the morning, _Zio_."

Volney flopped back down, cursed, and tried to bury his head in his pillow. "I know, _raggazo_, I know…" his voice was muffled and though there was no slur to his words, Sefton could sense the effort it took for him to keep them clear. "Just…wanted to forget," he was saying. "But…it was all… amber…"

"Am--amber?" Sefton was beginning to feel rather panicky. That unfortunate, dancing _assassino_-boy's voice was clear in his mind. "_Is_ tuo zio…un po' di…_um_…pazzo_, Sefton?"_

"Yes…amber. Took me ages to get the colour right, and then Isebella wouldn't stop moving. Babies are never still, mmph-hmph. You notice that, my boy? 

__

He's raving. The boy was getting seriously worried, now. "No, _zio_. Can't say I've noticed."

"Well, they do. Hopeless models, _bambini_."

Sefton nodded. He didn't think there was anything else he could do. "Who's Isebella, _zio_?"

Volney started, and looked up from the pillow. "What'dyou mean, 'who's Isebella'? Hmph? Don't recognise your own mother no more, eh?"

__

Oh, help…"Mama's name is--was--Kari, _zio_."

"Oh, yes…_Kari_. No one knows where she got that one from--sounds like a doll. I think--mmph-hmph--that she thought it was more…alluring, or something." Volney sighed, lost in a world of headachy nostalgia. "Hopeless romantic, my sister. Could never find a man that matched her fairy-tales--which is why she married an _Assassino_. Took the 'tall, dark, handsome stranger' qualifications to extremes, mmph-hmph. He had grey eyes, though. Never forgave him for that. She'd wanted a man with green ones: dark, mysterious green eyes that she could 'drown' in--that was it. She near cried when _you _were born, _raggazo_. '_Ma via_!' she said. 'Why, _why _did that man have to give his son those _eyes_, when the rest of him's so much better?'--"

"Ugh!" Sefton made a small, choked sound. His uncle looked at him blearily, cut off from his train of thought and confused. 

"_Che_?"

"You're drunk, _zio_ Volney," the boy gave Volney Rain a cold glare, which made the man shrink back pathetically. "I don't have to listen to this." 

With that, Sefton stood, not looking at the huddled form on the bed, and left the room. 

The door slammed. 

"Oh, _Dio_! My head…."

There was no amber, now. Just dull pain, the sensation his eyelids had turned inside out, and the faint idea that he'd just done something very stupid. 

He closed his eyes. The wine may not have been any good at making him forget, but perhaps it could help him sleep so he couldn't remember. 

* * *

__

Nido d'Aquilla (A town): The Tyra/Maren boarder, Tyra. 417 HE.

"Volney, take the _bambina _for a little."

"Oh, _mama_--!"

"--Don't you 'oh Mama' me. You're twenty-years-old. _Venti ani_! You're--"

"--I didn--"

"--Don't interrupt! You're old, unmarried, you do _niente_ for a living and, _Dea _preserve me, you're going to _do as you're told_." 

By the time Volney Rain had finished spluttering, the whining, three-and-a-half-month old bundle that was his younger sister had been dumped unceremoniously into his arms. "I was _working_," he said, quietly.

His mother raised an eyebrow. "Painting pretty pictures isn't work, _cara_. Not unless you _sell _pretty pictures, too."

"I will sell them!" Volney was defensive. He looked down at the canvas on well-scrubbed kitchen table, shifting the baby to a more comfortable position over his shoulder. "Just…not that one."

"Not this one, not that one, not any one!" 

"Ma-a-ma…"

"There you go again. Out of my sight now. I've got better things to do than listen to whingeing--"

"--I'm not--!"

"--Don't _interrupt_!"

Volney rolled his eyes. "_Chi_? _Mio_?"

"Yes, you! G'on--be off."

"_Si_, mama. Anything you say, mama." 

"Don't be cheeky!"

Volney didn't bother to reply-- he just grinned. His mother made a great show of being affronted, and stormed off. Gemma Rain wasn't one to be crossed. But her son knew that part of the spark in her eyes had been affection and, anyway, he'd gotten off lightly. Usually the tiny, stubborn-chinned weaver gave far worse tongue-lashings--she had a reputation to live up to.

The baby whined, and sicked-up on his shirt. 

"Charming, _bambina_."

She whined again.

Her big brother sighed, tried to ignore the spreading wetness on the back of his shirt, straightened his glasses with a free hand, and went outside. At least the weather was lovely. 

"Where do you want to go today, 'Bella?" he asked, eventually. "Into Maren?"

The baby couldn't reply, so he answered for her. "I want to go into Maren with my big, wonderful _fratello_ and buy some paper!" Volney put on an enthusiastic falsetto, jiggling Isebella up and down so that she laughed. 

That's a wonderful idea, 'Bella, but you have a _fratello povero_, you know. Not a nice, rich one. He can't afford paper today, and even if he _did _by some, then his mama would kill him. You wouldn't want a morto, _fratello povero_, would you?" With a grin, Volney Rain walked across the street, leaving his home, and country, behind him for the moment. "Of _course _you wouldn't."

The traders' town the Rains' lived in was an odd one. Called _Nido d'Aquilla _on one side of the main street, and Eagle's Eyrie on the other, it was good-sized, prosperous, and had the unique claim to fame of being completely bilingual. Eagle's Eyrie was in Marenite control and _Nido d'Aquilla _in Tyran--the main street matched the boarder exactly. Despite everyone's ability to speak the other's language, each resident stuck religiously to his or her nationalities. Despite the town's distance to its two respective capitals, patriotic pride was fierce. Volney answered back hotly to the jeers of a small group of Marenites, and cheerfully threw them a few of his own. The only beings that _didn't _care about what side of the road you were born on were the eagles that often flew, deadly and graceful, overhead. They were a part of both sides. 

One of them wheeled in the clear sky that moment; Volney looked up, and smiled. "See that, 'Bella? That's an _aquilla_. The _Marencia _call them 'eagles'. _Aquilla _is a prettier word, don't you think?"

Volney walked down towards 'Reed's Reeds', the new art and calligraphy supply shop that had come into business a few months before. To this story's bespectacled young man, it could have been the Cave of Wonders of Bazhir legend. He haunted the place endlessly. A silver bell jangled as he pushed the door open.

"Master Rain! _Wonderful_ to see you--come in!" 

Volney grinned at the warm welcome. "_Ciao_, _signore_."

Emerson Reed looked fondly at the young man. _A phenomenally talented lad, _he thought idly. _If only he didn't feel so guilty about buying good quality paper! The new Copper Islander batch would be perfect for him… _

"Who's the child, lad? It _can't _be Isebella! Last I saw her she was this big," the blue-eyed Tortallan made a ridiculously small measurement between his hands. 

"She's a fast grower, this one," Volney agreed, holding her up. 

Mr. Reed leaned over and took the baby girl out of her brother's hands, pretending to stagger under her weight. "Mark my words, she'll top you by the time she turns eleven, my boy."

"Probably," Volney mumbled. Being 5'4 could be embarrassing, sometimes. 

His friend laughed, delightedly bouncing Isebella in his arms. "So, to business," he said. "What are you looking for today? 

"Nothing in particular," Volney looked nervous. "I'm just browsing. You…don't mind? Do you?"

"Lad, if I minded, you'd know long before now. You practically _live _here."

Volney blushed, and smiled sheepishly. "_Scusa_."

"Not a problem," Mr. Reed beckoned the young man over, his gold wedding band sparkling in the light that came down from the shop window. "You might be interested in this, Master Rain, our latest import. Copper Islander, premium weight paper. The texture is perfect for pen-and-ink work, and is at practically _cost_…"

Volney was in heaven.

* * *

Above the shop, a boy was sitting at a desk, sketching. A magpie was sitting in black-and-white glory on his shoulder, occasionally preening the boy's wispy blonde hair with her beak. She looked at her human with sharp black eyes as he threw his pencil down. 

"I'll _never _get this right!" he was frustrated, cursing Master Cael's insistence on botanical drawings with his assignments. "I'm a mage, not an artist."

The magpie said nothing. To her, it didn't matter if he was either. 

"What do you think of it, Mihali?" The boy pointed at his work--at the strange half-shape-half-squiggle that seemed to be shaded from about fifty points of light at once. "It's meant to be Valerian."

Mihali was silent, but pulled a little too hard on his hair as she preened.

"My thoughts exactly."

With a groan, he picked up the much-smudged paper and walked to the stairs. Maybe his father could help.

* * *

Volney ran his hands along the crowded, varnished pine shelves of Reed's Reeds, lost in a dream world of paints and tints. One particular shade of 'Dragon Blue' watercolour kept catching his eye. "Buy me! _Buy me_!" it said. Volney wondered how he'd survived so long without this shop--it was beautiful. It was also owned by a lovely couple. The Reeds' were always glad to see him and the baby, even if they were Tortallan newcomers and he rarely bought anything. 

"Da?"

Volney turned around, surprised. A thin boy was behind the counter, holding a sheet of paper and looking up at Mr. Reed with a tired, frustrated expression in his light blue eyes. They looked alarmingly similar, save for the boy's--rather frazzled--white-blonde hair. A huge magpie was sitting on his shoulder, looking at Volney curiously. 

"What is it, son?" Mr. Reed was smiling indulgently at the child. 

"You know Master Cael, Da? Well, he wanted us to research Healing methods over the break--unmagical ones--and he said we needed to include a plant, and he wanted sketches, and I can't do the Valerian because it's too damned complicated and I can't draw, so--"

"Whoa, easy there, boy. Slow down before you run out of air! Don't fret so much. As it happens, we've an artist in residence right now--he might be able to help."

Volney started, "_Mio_?"

"Yes, you," said Mr. Reed, grinning. "Master Rain, meet my son. He's eleven this year, and has been in Carthak at the University, he's got it in his fool head to become a mage, which is why you haven't seen him about much. Son, this is Master Rain, our best customer and a bloody good artist, so you listen to what he says." Mr. Reed pushed his son gently forward with his free hand. (The other was still holding 'Bella.) "Go on, child! Introduce yourself."

The boy flushed a little and stepped forward, holding out a hand of his own. Volney took it, it was bigger than his, and the almost-eleven-year-old topped him by over an inch. "_Ciao, raggazo_," he stopped, remembering that the boy was Tortallan, and probably didn't speak Tyran. "_Mi chia_…I mean, I'm Volney."

The boy grinned. "You're Tyran?" he asked in a pleasant, breathy voice. "We've been learning that at the University. _Mi_…um…_chiamo _Lindhall. Lindhall Reed."

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fin


	4. Chapter Three: Smudged Lead

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Hundreds of Colours; Millions of Shades

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The story of Volney Rain

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By: Kitty Ryan, 2003

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Chapter Three: Smudged Lead

* * *

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Rating: PG-13

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Summary: In this chapter, Lindhall Reed has to 'leave room for light', Volney tries to teach, and, at the Imperial University, something very close to home is being entered into Muhassin Tasike's art collection. 

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Authors Notes: We're finally getting somewhere! *cheers* After this chapter the plot should start to form, and we'll say goodbye to Tyra in favour of everyone's favourite Carthak. Look out for cameos from several Emperor Mage cast members.

* * *

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Smials: The 'big blank bit' at the end of the chapter is a really irritating formatting error that I can't seem to fix up. Gods bless ff.net and their errors! (*mutters* And their refusal to centre anything…) As for the Pratchett tang, well, I couldn't help it. Discworld has corrupted me irrevocably. Sefton, and his father, are nothing like Carrot, though. _No one _is like Carrot. The name stems from the fact that Sefton's grandfather was a blacksmith--not a six-foot dwarf. 

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Sarah: Queen of Characters? I think not, flatterer and creator of Most-Evil-Lord-to-Pollute-the-Earth. And…at this point, Sefton is _twelve_. What _is _it with you and my male characters? *grin*

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Hez: *hugs* You're wonderful.

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Candice: There was nothing to forgive. I'm just a Review Harpy. I'm _so _glad that the Italian seems to flow well, you've no idea how much I fretted about that. And…*dies* you're _another _Sefton fangirl? Refer to Sarah's above comment, m'dear. *smirks* Thanks again for the review. 

* * *

"_Reed's Reeds"_ (a shop): The Tyra/Maren boarder, Maren. 417 HE. 

* * *

"Er…Master Rain?"

"_Si?_ Oh, and stop calling me Master. I like Volney just fine."

"Terribly sorry, it's a habit. You try living most of the year in a place where half of the older _students _demand to be called Master, as well as the _real _Masters, and some people who can only be called a Master when they talk about a certain thing--"

"--Lindhall. You were…asking me something? _Non_?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry, again. How…how on _earth _are you supposed to draw light on _white _paper? I mean…it's _white_, curse Shakith, and it just doesn't make any sense!"

Light was pouring though the windows of a room above the art shop. It was a warm light, somehow full of hints of the insane blue of the sky and the soft, mellow pinks of Mrs. Reed's peonies. It made the faded muslin curtains, the chipped blue paint on the windowsill, the yellow-papered walls with their traces of mildew, look bright and clean and ethereal. Lindhall, himself, looked almost disturbingly angelic, with his cloud of pale hair, and his face flushed with exertion. Volney loved the picture he made, and his own place in it: the only bold tints in a pastel room. 

"Look around you! How can you say that light is…_uniform_? That it's _una coloure_?" Volney shuddered. "If I was my mama, I'd go and tell you to wash your mouth out. Besides, you don't _draw _light. You leave _room _for it." 

"Leave…room for it?" 

"_Si. _When you work, you need to make sure that you leave parts of it for the light fit into of its own accord. You don't shade everything too heavily, so that the light feels welcome and will sit comfortably within your paper, or whatever else you're using. Light is just as alive as you or I, Lindhall." Volney was impassioned, face red and eyes wet behind his spectacles. 

There was so much to _say_, so much to pass on. He might have only been teaching this boy for a few months, but Volney loved it. He had had no _idea_ that he could articulate things that he had only ever expressed to a sheet of paper or canvas. True, Lindhall hasn't improved very much, but he was _listening_, wasn't he…?

"Um…Volney?"

"Hmm?"

"You _do _realise that you're making no sense, don't you?" Lindhall's eyes were wide and apologetic as his teacher's fledgling ego shrivelled up and died. "And that you're completely insane?"

"I have been accused of that, _si_."

Lindhall flinched. "M'sorry. Just that…well…I still don't get it. I'm stupid, is all."

"_Non_, _non," _Volney managed a smile. "You can out-pace me on any topic, and you know it."

"Not about art."

"That's not a topic, _raggazo_. That's a _lifestyle._"

"See? There you go again!" Lindhall grinned. "It's when you speak like I know that you're going to be famous, and I'm not. I'd rather closet myself up in academia any day."

"Too many big words, those you're using," Volney muttered, blushing now. "I'm only a little man with a smaller brain. Just ask Mama." 

Laughing, Lindhall picked up his pencil again, and tried to draw. Volney watched him, only speaking to correct a stroke from time to time, and sat with the magpie Mihali on his shoulder. Idly, he picked up a stub of discarded graphite, and began to sketch. 

It seems--these days-- that one can only sit in companionable silence for so long. 

"Volney?"

"Lindhall?"

"What do you think of…slavery?"

"It's disgusting! 

Lindhall was looking at the floor, face pale and disturbed. "It's…everywhere. Carthak _survives _off it--off the unpaid labour of millions of people. Everyone acts like they can't see them, and they're not allowed in the University, but you can't escape it. And I _can't _ignore them, Volney. I can't act like it's normal or night." Steadily, the boy's voice was speeding up, each word tumbling from his mouth. "I…I dream about chains," he whispered, at last. "Where does light fit in that?"

Volney sighed, and patted his charge on the shoulder. "Light makes the dark things visible," he said. 

* * *

Late in the evening, long after Lindhall had gone home, Volney put the final touches on his sketch. 

An earnest young man in a Carthaki Master's robe, eyes fierce and intelligent and determined, with a strange, beautiful light shining in his face and off his hair, which, if in colour, might just have been blonde. Light sparkled off the tip of a magpie's wing, and there was an inscription, carefully inked with one of Emerson Reed's best pens. 

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"Remember the Glory; Remember your Light"

There, it was done. 

"Oh…that's_ very_ pretty, _cara_."

Volney jumped at the sound of his mother's voice, which was unusually gentle. "Um…_grazi_, he muttered, blushing.

"You going to _sell _it, hmm?" Gemma was expectant, tapping her fingers on the table in a decidedly menacing fashion.

"_Non_, Mama," Volney tried not to flinch. "Not this one. It's a gift." 

"Oh, a _gift_, is it? Who is the one so lucky, that he receives gifts even from those who cannot afford to give them?"

"Calm down, Mama. It's for Lindhall, _mio studente._"

"The smart one? Goes to _la Università_?"

"_Si, _that one. There is _only _one."

"Volney, I'm too tired for you to be insufferable. Maybe this _studente_ of yours will learn something of business, sell his gift, then give you," Gemma smirked, sitting down opposite him, "his _venerable _teacher, half the profit. Maybe two-thirds, if he's particularly grateful." 

"Ugh, you are terrible." 

"But, my son, I'm richer than you are." Gemma was triumphant. 

Volney gave up.

"You're going to miss this Lindhall, when he goes."

"Yes, I think I will."

* * *

Boys' Dormitory: Imperial University of Carthak, Carthak. 418HE

* * *

"Oi! Welcome back, green-fingers."

"Lindhall! You spent your break in Tyra, right? Or was it Maren? Did you get to… try any of the specialties?"

"Did you manage to scribble that valerian?"

Lindhall Reed flung his packs on his pallet-bed in the university dormitory, to fight of an onslaught of roommates. Well, three, actually, but when they were all talking at once, and their belongings were strewn about all the floor of the room, and one of them was eagerly trying to upend his own bags for new additions, it seemed fairly full-on. He smiled, rather tiredly. 

"Thanks for the welcomes. Chioke, I have _no _idea what sort of specialties you're talking about, and suspect I don't want to have one, anyway, and no, I didn't 'scribble that valerian'. I drew it, would you believe." 

"No, we don't, actually," the lean, imperious boy called Chioke drawled, watching the boy with the welcomes fish through Lindhall's bag. "I see you're still trying to cram as much as possible into one sentence."

"If you don't believe I can draw a little," Lindhall murmured, half-smiling and pulling the welcoming boy's hand out of his pack, "then I'd _never _expect you do deal with changes that severe. It would be impossible, scandalous, even; that I should change how I speak or ac--"

"--You haven't changed a bit, green fingers," Chioke said, tiredly. "There is such a thing as over-stating a--"

"Hey, look at _this, _would you?" Welcome-boy's hand had come up holding something--the carefully framed Light and Glory sketch that Volney had given Lindhall before he left. Ignoring Chioke's glare at being interrupted, the fledgling war-mage stared at Lindhall with awed eyes. "You haven't um…improved _that _much, have you?"

"Not on his life, he hasn't." Chioke looked at the sketch, narrow green eyes calculating. "_Shakith_, it's good, though. Who's the artist?"

"No one you'd know, Lindhall replied. "He's Tyran, and has never sold a piece in his life."

"Well, he's obviously bloody stupid, then, isn't he? My father would love to see this." 

Lindhall stared. Chioke's father was an adviser to the Emperor, his most Serene Highness Muhassin Tasike, himself, and had a pointed and rather disturbing interest in the Imperial art collection. :"Well, show it to him then!" Lindhall looked at the sketch again, in amazement. "But I want it back." 

* * *

Thousands of miles away, the 'bloody stupid Tyran' held his baby sister and watched the evening light over the hills and farms. His 21st birthday had come and gone, and he thought most of his stock of surprises had been used up for another year. 

I don't need to tell you he was wrong. 


End file.
